Leslie kept sleeping as I got slowly out of bed, dressed, and went over to her purse, which she’d left slouched against the wall. I unzipped it and drew out her wallet, one of those Vera Bradley paisley wristlets. She had at least six or seven credit cards in there along with her ID and insurance stuff. I remembered how she’d said she’d lost her job. Maybe she was maxing them out, one by one. The pouch had a lot of cash, though. Four twenties, a five, and a few ones.
I thought about her big fancy wedding set and her nice new-smelling car and how she was probably going to get her fifty grand even if it was after a lot of legal shit instead of right away like she wanted. I thought about how she probably deserved to wait for it, the way she’d talked about her sister yesterday. She owes me money, sucking on one of my cigarettes.
Then I took all the cash, stuffed it in my duffel, and closed the door on her as gently as I possibly could.
* * *
—
Outside, standing in the thin shade under the awning of the entrance to the motel, I sent another text.
baby?
we have a lot to talk about
can you pick me up?
im at
I glanced around. The motel was on the corner of some street adjacent to Boulder Highway, but I couldn’t find the street sign. Farther away, on the edge of the highway proper, I spotted a Blueberry Hill next to the Walgreens on the corner and realized I was totally starving.
im at the blueberry hill on boulder hwy. breakfast on me
The restaurant was already crowded, and I started to feel good about myself after a few minutes sitting on one of the drugstore-style stools at the counter slurping my Diet Coke. I’d ordered one of their half-ton platters of chilaquiles and the restaurant was playing the underrated Canadian folk anthem “You Were On My Mind,” which felt like it was telling me something about me and Paul. I took out my phone and started playing Fruit Ninja.
I felt somebody at my elbow and twisted around, the thank-you halfway out of my mouth before I realized it wasn’t a server with my chilaquiles.
Sam tapped the man beside me on the shoulder. “Could you scoot down, please, sir? I want to sit next to my girlfriend.”
The man shifted over one stool, and Sam hefted himself onto the pre-crushed vinyl. “That’s what I told my friend you were,” I said to him, eyeing the other man over his shoulder before I let my eyes rest on him. “My abusive boyfriend. I said you stalked me and hit me.”
Sam chuckled. “Is that so? Well, wouldn’t I be flattered.”
“Maybe I wasn’t lying. Seems like you’re stalking me now.” I sniffed. “I’m feeling kind of emotional about it, actually. Like I could start crying to some strangers in this restaurant about the scary man following me. If you don’t leave me alone.”
The waitress appeared behind the counter and set down my chilaquiles, her face lighting up as she saw Sam. “Been a while, Sammy! We missed you around here. You want anything? Something to drink?”
“Maisie! How you doing? If I could get a…” Sam craned his neck to see the edge of my plastic menu underneath the chilaquiles. “A buttercream waffle, and a cup of coffee, please. Thanks very much.” He winked at me. “Breakfast on you, right?”
I slumped in my seat. “Fine. Do you want more money? Is that what this is about?”
“It’s about you still talking to Paul,” Sam answered, filching a chilaquile. “Honey, you got to cut it out.” He rested his chin in his hand and looked at me for a few seconds without speaking. I stared back, trying to keep my face neutral. “You’re not getting back together with him,” Sam said finally. “I don’t know if you get that, you know, in here.” He tapped my breastbone with two thick fingers uncomfortably hard.
I regarded him, his little round blue eyes, his round pink face, and tried to figure out the best way to get myself out of there alone. Finally I put on a wide, warm smile, showing all my teeth. “Don’t you have better things to do than worry about me, Sam?” I asked, resting my hand on his arm.
“To be honest, I do,” he said, crunching on another one of my chilaquiles. He nodded to himself. “Yes, I do. But I have a soft spot for you. You got that pretty face, you got legs for days. You deserve more than this Paul guy, honey. You deserve to never have to work again. You could really set yourself up, you know? You could have more than this.” The waitress dropped off a mug of coffee and he paused to smile at her. Then he looked at me and the smile disappeared into his puffy face. “But unfortunately, I think you are intent on wasting your potential on guys like Paul. Rich guys who tell you they’re gonna take you to the Maldives while they run around behind your back telling all the other pretty dummies the same thing. You’re that kind of girl. You’ll just pine, and moan, and work your good looks right off. Maybe you’ll do some meth to stay skinny. Eventually, you’ll be a little wasted shell of yourself, forty years old. And then,” he said, stirring sugar into his coffee, “maybe you’ll finally lower yourself to be my lady friend for real, huh?”
I barely breathed for a few long seconds, feeling my jaw tense and relax in a compulsive rhythm. When I could speak, I said, “Oh, Sam. I wouldn’t fuck you if your dick would cure my cancer.” I stood up, grabbed my duffel bag, and extended two fingers to tap his khaki-covered chest. “I don’t know if you get that. In here.”
He laughed and caught my hand. “I’m just telling you the truth. I know you don’t hear it that often.”
I wrenched my hand out of his grip.
“See you next Saturday,” he said. “Get your tips ready.”
I leaned in and said into his ear, “You’ll never see me again.”
He snickered and turned back to his coffee as I headed for the exit.
11
Leslie
Someone had pulled the plug, or maybe there had been a power outage; the bedside clock read —:—. Next to me, my phone went fbbbbbb against the mattress. I swiped green. “Hello?” I whispered.
“Oh, shit, I woke you up,” Dave said in my ear. He sounded so close, like he was in bed with me. “I’m sorry.”
I sat up. “No, no. I’m fine.” I yawned a little, feeling my jaw pop, and glanced over at the other bed.
It was empty.
My heart began to pound. “What time is it?”
“It’s a little past ten. Wait, is Las Vegas Pacific time? It’s nine for you, then.”
“Nine already?” The room still smelled sour. Me, maybe—I’d slept in my clothes—or Mary’s cigarettes from last night.